


never leave my side

by disheveledcurls



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disheveledcurls/pseuds/disheveledcurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life on Earth demands sacrifice. That's only fair. We all have our priorities.</p><p>(Your hand, your mouth, your voice. Everyone else is expendable.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hand to hold

**Author's Note:**

> A/U. First chapter's set in a somewhat quiet interlude I made up between episodes 1x10 “I Am Become Death” and 1x11 “The Calm”; second chapter will be set somewhere in post-Bellarke-reunion ("Human Trials") season 2. It took me way too long to get this ready because I wrote about a million words of Bellarke fic after watching the midseason finale and then December was a terrible month so I haven't had time to focus on my writing as much as I'd like to. Anyway, here it is. I apologize in advance for any typos or continuity mistakes you may find - hopefully nothing will be OOC! I will be posting other fics soon, too, so stay tuned if you like this one.
> 
> PS: yes, I know it's cheesy. Can't help it. I AM RIDICULOUS PERSON. Enjoy.  
> PS2: title of the second chapter obviously comes from Hozier's "Take Me to Church."

 

“… here in the woods we move as two parts of one being. […] …it’s about as close to happiness as I think I can currently get.”

from Chapter 4 of S. Collins’s _Mockingjay_.

 

_give me hope in silence, it's easier, it's kinder_

mumford & sons, **the enemy.**

 

When he enters the tent in the early morning, everyone's asleep or trying not to die from the stupid disease caught from Murphy, or somewhere between the two. (Fortunately, Murphy himself is nowhere to be seen, which certainly makes it easier for Bellamy not to think about punching the bastard in the face, if only momentarily.) Everyone, that is, except Clarke, ever the diligent nurse. She makes rounds, checking on dozens of important things he couldn’t possibly pinpoint –always in that calm, brisk-yet-breezy way of hers– and finally comes to a halt beside Raven's hammock. Bellamy thinks he catches Clarke sighing. He sees her rock back and forth on her heels a couple of times, as if she had something to say but she couldn’t quite bring herself to wake Raven up, after which she just shakes her head like she’s changed her mind, and resumes checking her breathing and pulse. Then she seems to remember something, moves on to another makeshift litter, and prepares to change some bandages on a girl who looks way worse; by the looks of it, she was probably one of the last to catch the virus, on top of her battle wounds.

Clarke’s golden wavy Disney hair –however tousled into mad-scientist status by recent events– frames her face, as he watches her work, keeping his own face carefully blank despite the smile that struggles to break free. He doesn’t get tired of watching her. He couldn’t tell you why this is so. He doesn’t really let himself interrogate the matter further. (On a side-note, he doesn't really know why he keeps thinking of her as a princess in a non-ironic, non-hateful way. Also, he wouldn’t be caught dead admitting to having watched or read anything Disney-made, even though most people nowadays probably wouldn't even know what Disney is. He does know, though. He has a sister. What kind of stories do you tell a baby sister? Disney was a good start, at least until Octavia outgrew and outsmarted those stories. But never mind that. He reminds himself not to get carried away. Disney is most definitely not war-leader material. Right?) 

It feels weird in the best possible way, this strange fellowship they’ve built from scratch. The kind of respect that allows them to talk to each other as equals, this working-partners, or rather, partners-in-crime dynamic… Christ. Whatever. He’s not good with words. Whatever this is, it’s good. It feels right. He likes it. He likes _her_. There, he said it. Christ alive. Bellamy likes to think of himself as a grown-ass man. He is most definitely _not_ trying to hide a faint blush on his cheeks about saying he likes his co-leader. He just happens to be very interested on the floor beneath his feet. There, now. He tries it again, a little more easily this time. He likes this. He likes her. It feels right letting her call the shots. It feels right checking on her every now and then, and seeing what he can do to help, and vice versa. It feels right knowing he’s not the only one who can’t sleep sometimes – _sometimes_ meaning most nights– thinking about the graves outside their camp. He has also come to accept –one of the many things he had to learn the hard way, which apparently seems to be the only fucking way he ever learns things, because what is making good decisions– that she is the more competent leader of the two. _For now we make the rules_ , she said. To him, it feels more like she makes decisions that prove smart and sound in time, and he goes around acting all tough and fucking things up for the sake of what? Protecting Octavia, supposedly? Getting revenge for his crappy life on the Ark? Selfish, self-interested reasons for a monster’s antics. He frowns at himself for letting his mind wander like that. The point is he’ll let her –help her?– make the rules, and see what he can do about making happen whatever she deems necessary and that way, maybe, just maybe they’ll have a chance in Hell of surviving this unexpected war they got themselves into by falling from the skies. This stupid, terrible, beautiful planet they now find themselves in.

"Everything alright?" he asks, by way of terse greeting.

It feels even weirder to gather that she must have grown accustomed to his voice, so much so she doesn't even need to look away from her work to know it's him. "As good as it gets," she says, with her usual grim humor. "We lost Connor in the night," she adds, a somber afterthought.

“I’m sorry.”

Because her hair obstructs the view, and because she's not looking anyway, she misses the flash of desperate compassion that cracks his face open. He frowns even more. "Hey, you've been saving all our asses since we got here, Clarke. Cut yourself some slack."

She turns and makes what he's come to call her _you're-wrong_ face, head cocked a little to the side, jaw set at a stubborn angle, faint smirk, glare. "That's nice of you to say."

"You know me, I'm all about giving," he replies, grinning a little in what he hopes is charm.

"You want anything?" she asks.

"You gonna do something about that hair or what?", he asks, non sequitur, pointing.

"What?" She frowns.

"How can you even see what you're doing?" Her look of total disorientation eggs him on. “What if you sew somebody’s arm back on backwards or something?”

She actually barks out a short sound that is something like a laugh; Bellamy couldn’t be sure but he’s proud of it, nonetheless. Her whole face is still scrunched up in confusion. "My hands are covered in blood and mud, in case you didn't notice. I'm not about to touch my hair right now."

"Because you might get it dirty?" he asks, his face mock-candid. "Dirti _er_?"

"If I can keep at least a minimal fraction of myself in better hygienic conditions than the rest, I will do so, yes." She glares at him. "And as you can see, I'm busy, so make yourself useful, Blake, or make yourself scarce."

 _Don't call me Blake_ , he thinks, but instead, he asks, "Or what, princess?"

"Or you and me are gonna have problems." She stares him down until they both snigger in exhausted derision. She turns her back on him and so absorbed does she become in her work that she does not hear him put down his rifle on a nearby table, or walk closer to her.  Therefore she is, naturally, very startled when she hears steps right behind her.

"Fuck," she says, taking in a sharp breath and spinning quickly around. When her vision focuses, seconds later, she's holding a shiny pair of scissors against Bellamy's neck. He holds his hands up in the universal sign for surrender, although he figures if he were inside her head –or anyone's, really–it'd be quite a challenge conceiving of him as harmless. After all he's done. After all they've seen.  _Murderer. Monster. I am become Death, destroyer of worlds_.

"Bellamy, what the hell?" she says, bringing him back to reality. "You scared me."

"I do that a lot, don't I?" he says, a little more somberly than he intended. He has to remind himself once again to keep it together.

"I didn't mean –"

He cuts her off. "'S alright."

"You just startled me, that's all."

"Sorry," he says, backing up, giving her space. "I didn't wanna distract you. I should've asked before I got this close."

She shakes her head in astonishment. "What were you even _doing_?"

"I thought I'd... make myself useful."

The look of total puzzlement in her face demands an explanation. "I thought I could, uh, braid your hair back, maybe? Get it off your face, so it doesn't bother you?"

Her jaw falls open before she can't help herself. "Are we high again? This isn’t real, is it?"

He rolls his eyes. "I have a sister, remember? I must've done Octavia's hair a thousand times, you know, whenever she’d get bored or antsy in our unit. I know the drill. I may be a little rusty, but I shouldn't be a total mess. Gotta be like riding a bike, right? You don't forget."

She's still staring at him with a silent wonder he misinterprets for a polite rebuff, so he starts receding into stiff courteousness. "If it's gonna make you uncomfortable, then forget it. I was only trying to help –"

"Don't go," she says, catching him by the wrist, locking eyes with him, and it’s like they’re back in the woods after their little daytrip. _I need you_. _Come back with me._ It might actually be the first time they’ve been alone together, this close, since then. "It's a good idea. You just caught me off guard, alright?" She gives him one of her weird appreciative looks, then turns back to her patient. "Who'd have thought Great Reckless Bloodthirsty Warrior Bellamy Blake would bother himself with niceties such as hairstyling," she remarks wistfully. She hears him scoff self-deprecatingly at this, and would swear on her life he's blushing pink under his numerous freckles, although she's pretty sure he wouldn't be caught dead admitting to having blushed ever, and also, frankly, what freckles? It’s not like she noticed them or anything.

She startles again, a slight shiver traveling down her spine, when he places his hands on her scalp –so softly, she thinks, it may have been a butterfly alighting– and starts gathering hair. His touch is impossibly gentle and her skin prickles everywhere. Clarke tells herself this is an absolutely normal reaction to human contact, but she certainly thanks her stars her back is turned, because otherwise what? What face do you make when someone’s hands on you feel so – you know what, let’s not go there. How do you explain to someone, _No, it’s okay, I’m just gaping and a little unfocused and breathless because I like the way you touch me_? Jesus Christ. Her thoughts are certainly getting out of hand today. _Get it? Out of hand?,_ a goofy voice inside her head chimes, apparently finding this hilarious.  Clarke takes a few deep breaths and does not slap anything, as much as she’d like to.

His fingers are a little clumsy at first, then steady and careful and serious, as if he were handling something terribly delicate and unthinkably valuable, and he works without a word, guessing, correctly, that she doesn't feel like talking. Neither does he, to be honest. Besides, he'd probably better keep his thoughts to himself, considering every time he lets himself get carried away in motivational speeches and playing the leader, people end up dead.

She likes this amicable silence, too, their movements almost in sync as she cleans and disinfects, as he weaves and braids. Eventually, they come to a stop at once. Bellamy secures the end of the braid with a hair tie Clarke produces after much rummaging in her pockets –all the while doing her best to ignore the warmth and softness of his hands as she gives it over–, mumbles, simply, "Done," and makes as if to leave.

"Wait," she stops him. She brings her fingers to the back of her head to feel the braid, and somewhat frustrated, searches around for a mirror or anything remotely similar, until she remembers one they once brought from the bunker. She holds it to the back of her head, scrutinizing the braid, which she judges excellent at the same time as Bellamy is offering quiet apologies for not having done a better job of it.

"Stop that," she says. "It's great. I couldn't have done this in a million years."

He lights up a bit, a proud little lopsided grin sitting oddly on a face usually so stern. Hecomposes himself quickly, nods. "Glad it's good enough for you, princess."

She rolls her eyes. "Thank you, Bellamy," she says earnestly. Somewhere behind them, a kid starts moaning, and she sighs, her shoulders heaving with exhaustion. "Gotta keep working, alright?"

He nods again, somewhat distracted. A strand of hair has fallen –already– out of a sloppily executed side-part of the braid, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. "Right," he manages to say.

The kid's moaning grows louder. "I'll be right there," she yells, and turns to him again. "I'll call you if I have a hair emergency," she says, smirking. "Or any other kind of emergency."

"Whatever you need, princess," he says, in a heartbeat. "Whenever you need it."

She rolls her eyes, spins on her heel, and walks off at her usual brisk pace, leaving him stranded like a puppet whose strings have been cut off, or like one who has something to do in a room but has forgotten what it was. After a moment, he shakes himself out of it, and leaves the tent to patrol the camp, as he should have been doing all along. Still, for hours afterwards, he’s distraught, a fraction of his mind wondering whether the quiet moment with Clarke in the dropship was just a dream. He thinks about the braid and he paces, restless, longing.

Maybe his hands are good for something other than firing weapons and breaking bones.

(There's more to both of them than meets the eye, and though he walks with a heavy tread, head hung low like a hopeless sinner, when she looks at him, the words that come to mind do not leave a foul taste in her mouth. It could be because she likes arguing so much, but when he thinks _monster_ , she thinks _misguided._ She thinks _brother._ She thinks, at worst, _avenging_   _angel_.) 

\---

She finds him later, after dinner, as he’s getting ready for patrol again, and falls into step beside him without a word, her braid –he can’t help notice– already halfway undone. (His fingers twitch; he tightens his grip on the rifle instead.) Even as she’s grieving for her mother, for the chance they lost when the Exodus ship crashed and burned –and even as they’re waiting for a screaming horde of vengeful Grounders to fall on them any second–, she finds it in her to care about his feelings. It takes her a while to speak, while they walk together with vigilant eyes and he shouts orders to passersby, as if she were thumbing around in her head for the right way to have this conversation. The one they started when he was about to kill Murphy for Charlotte (as opposed to when he let Murphy hang just to give people what they wanted, which he’s not letting himself forget); the one left unfinished at the woods, after Dax tried to kill him; the one they had in a single glance when he was torturing Lincoln with her consent; the one they had after discovering that neither of them were dying of some mysterious hemorrhagic disease after all (again, Murphy’s fault.) It’s a serious conversation and frankly, a serious conversation with Clarke Griffin is a somewhat terrifying prospect. Bellamy would probably rather face the Grounders and get it over with. But when she opens her mouth and he braces himself for a lecture all that comes out is kindness, a sort of peace offering even though he’s already signed the damn peace treaty. Imagine expecting a kick in the face you very much deserve, and getting a hug, instead. It throws him off.

“I’m sorry, what?”, he says, stopping in his tracks.  

She raises a questioning eyebrow, already looking halfway pissed off. (It takes so little to make her furious: he secretly finds it endlessly amusing.) “Were you even listening?”

 “I was focusing on the gunners,” he says, trying to look serious. Commanding. War leader-ish. “You know, so that we don’t get killed and all.”

“That’s a terrible excuse, and I expect better manners from my co-leader.”

He thinks he can actually feel his heart skip a beat at that last word. _Will ya keep it together for about five seconds,_ he tells himself. “I’m sorry, princess, you know what we’re like, poor little orphans. Terribly rude.”

He means it as a joke, but it seems everything he says today gets taken out of context. She frowns. “That’s not funny,” she says, somewhat self-consciously, as if she felt guilty about even having brought up the subject of politeness, even in jest.

He rolls his eyes, eager to change the subject, and elbows her lightly so they’ll resume walking. The last thing he wants to be accountable for is making her feel guilty.“Not if you don’t have a sense of humor, nothing is.”

His little jab is worth the face she makes then, lips parting wide in total outrage.“Hey, you don’t know me. I’m _lots_ of fun. I have a _great_ sense of humor. _Everybody_ knows that.”

He arches his eyebrows in mock disbelief. “If you say so, princess.”

“You keep that up, I’m gonna have to prove it.”

“Is that a threat, princess?”

She twists her mouth into a wicked little grin, and gives him a fleeting sidelong glance. “Maybe.”

“Well, that was the lamest threat I’ve ever heard,” he says, taking longer strides as she speeds up and takes the lead, her back turned. “It sure sounds horrific. Why don’t we start using you as a deterrent with the Grounders?” When he catches up, he gets a side view of her face, a blank slate, blinds pulled down, a faint tension in her brow, in the corners of her mouth. Bellamy thinks he can guess what’s building up behind that mask, inside her mouth.“I can just picture it,” he says, prodding her. “We leave you in one of their villages and you start telling terrible jokes until everybody flees in terror.” She grows stiffer, as if squaring herself against a feeling that seems to be cracking her up from the inside. He tries again, because he doesn’t believe in doing things halfway. “When we go find you, the whole village’s empty and you just stand there untouched, yelling, ‘I did it! I’m _so fun_! My sense of humor is our secret weapon!’” 

Bellamy thinks it’s his pitiful impression of her voice that does it. She turns on her heel so fast he almost clashes into her and her whole face breaks into the biggest grin he’s ever seen her wear, lips trembling, and she opens her mouth and laughter just explodes out of her like so many birds being released from a cage, suddenly, spotting the sky. It’s infectious, to say the least, and he grins so hard he thinks his face is going to freeze in place. She laughs so loud and so long he figures every single person in the camp must have heard, as well as the Grounders, which means if by any chance they didn’t know their whereabouts and state of affairs yet, they do now, which means they’re all dead. Dead _er_ than they were already. _Worth it_ , Bellamy thinks, standing a few respectful feet away from Clarke and watching her laugh herself silly. The sudden realization hits him, not without surprise, that he feels something like happiness for the first time since he can remember. It’s a strange happiness: a little breathless and a little like breathing easy after ages of drowning, all things all at once. He couldn’t possibly explain it.

By the time she’s done laughing, he’s nodding in the general direction of the dropship –since it’s time to make sure fires are put out and everyone’s accounted for– and she’s following, by his side again. He gives her the snarkiest, most smug smirk he can possibly muster, and says, “I think this proves that I am, by far, the most fun co-leader in this camp.”

The look she gives him is –tries to be– murderous. “One of these days, I will actually destroy you.”

“Is that a –“

“Shut up.”

They walk in comfortable silence a little longer, and then she blurts out, once again outraged, “To think that I came out here just to make sure you didn’t get yourself into trouble and to say something nice…”

His stomach clenches in alarm. _I’m not afraid_. “Bring it on, princess.”

She shakes her head, purses her lips shut. Then, as if she’d thought better of it, she says, “Give yourself a break.”

“I’m sorry?”

She looks him in the eye in that knowing way she has that X-rays him, and says, softly, “I’ve never seen monsters go around braiding people’s hairs and telling jokes, have you?”

He stands rooted to the spot for the second time that day, and it’s her fault again. He shakes his head, bewildered as he’s ever been. He does not understandwhy this world keeps giving him chances, and why she chooses to give him these words like flowers picked off a field just for him.  All he can do is nod in lieu of the _thank you_ that’s been stuck in his throat since he came to this planet. She nods back and takes off, heading back to the dropship, he presumes, for the last of today’s check-ups.

He has never heard a string quartet in his life –music, back on the Ark, was for the privileged– but he thinks their strumming must have felt like her words just did, a kind of floating, a kind of pleasant rumbling between the ribs.  He tries to shake the feeling off and focus but even as he lies down to sleep, her words –all of them– are there, they won’t go, and just like that, hope blooms in his chest like blood from a gunshot wound, and it’s there and it takes root despite his best efforts. 

Bellamy doesn’t understand why she should give away something as precious as forgiveness to someone like him, why she would bother being a beacon in his darkness. He doesn’t understand a damn thing, but he’s not complaining.

\---

The next day, he finds her standing outside camp, watching for either Grounders or for her mother to rise from the ruins of the Exodus ship. _No one’s coming down to save us,_ she says, like it’s the first time she really understands they’re on their own, and his heart breaks for her. He wishes, pointlessly, that he could give her back everything she’s lost. Instead, he places a tentative hand on her back.

“Come on,” he says. “You gotta eat.”

She gives him a tired look, like she knows he has a point but eating is the last thing on her mind. “You comin’ with?”

“Sure, I could eat,” he says, gently steering her towards camp. “Besides, I gotta make sure you don’t step on any landmines on the way there.”

She smiles despite herself. “Don’t worry. If Raven blows me up, you can take my body to the Grounders as a peace offering, _and_ you’ll be the leader all by yourself.”

He smirks. “Everybody wins.”

“Exactly.” She laughs. Against all odds, she sees hope here, feels it in her heartbeat, knows that they will fight tooth and nail to weather this storm and that it has to be enough. She understands now something she figures Bellamy must have known all along, which is that life is a fight, that every living thing fights like Hell for the right to its next breath, for its family, for another day on Earth. Just because they fell from the skies doesn’t mean they’re the exception. They _will_ fight. And if she has any say in it, they will make it to the other side, to the next sunrise. She’s not losing anybody else.

Just before they reach the gates, she grabs a hold of Bellamy’s hand, and squeezes tight in a wordless _thank you_. The corners of his mouth curl upwards at once and he nods. “You got this,” he says. Though apropos of nothing to the naked eye, his words are a welcome confirmation of her inner monologue. “If you say there’s hope…” he adds, fondly, like he’s reminding her. Clarke could laugh at the memory of hating him, at his initial hostility, though no one could have predicted they’d end up like this, fighting wars on the same side.

She holds onto his hand a little longer, prays that he’s right, that they will be safe.

Maybe they won’t need saving.

 

 


	2. the only heaven i'll be sent to

 

_without you i got nothing to lose_

jay z ft. beyoncé, **part II (on the run)**

 

Life on Earth demands sacrifice. That's only fair. We all have our priorities.

(Your hand, your mouth, your voice. Everyone else is expendable.)

\----

“Bellamy.”

“Busy,” he mumbles, without looking up from kissing her neck.

She tugs at his hair meaning, _Come up here_ , so he does. “Take off your clothes,” she says.

He stills. “What?”

“No, wait. Take mine off. No, wait –” She stops, her eyes searching around as if she couldn’t make up her mind. Her hands have not left his hair, where they’re anchored, and he waits, a look of quiet expectation on his face that is half bemused, half desperate.

“Princess? How about we –“

“Split up, cover more ground?” she interrupts, finishing his sentence.

“Exactly,” he says, still in awe that they can read each other’s minds with such ease.

“Good idea.” She nods.

It gets a little funny –both funny _haha_ and funny strange– when they say, at once, “After you,” with the same wicked grin on their faces.

(Neither of them hesitates to take that small decisive step forward by means of which they fall into each other’s arms for good. Neither of them regrets a minute of it.)

\---

“That would be rock n’ roll.”

“Please.” He rolls his eyes. “As if you knew what’s rock n’ roll.”

“Of course I do. And Bellamy?”

“Yes?”

“If I asked you not to touch me _all day_ , what would you do?”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows dry, a shiver going through him. This now he considers plain cruel. “I wouldn’t lay a finger on you unless you said so, princess. You know that.”

She raises a questioning eyebrow, urging him on, so he adds, “And I would punch anybody who did, probably.”

“Rude. And?”

“And suffer like a fucking penitent in Hell, I guess. Maybe turn myself in to the Grounders so they’ll put me out of my misery.”

She laughs a small, breathy, royal laugh Bellamy thinks suits her like a glove, her eyes going a little dangerous. “If only I had known I held such power over you, I’d probably have used it sooner.”

“Are you gonna use it now?”

“We’ll see.” She looks him up and down. ”I’m a good woman but even my patience has its limits.”

“I see.”  
“I guess you’ll just have to be on your best behavior, just in case.”

He frowns, a slow smile creeping up his face. “What if I can’t promise that?”

She gives him a look that is pure mischief. “Do you _really_ wanna test me?”

 

“Will you two give it a _fucking rest_?” Raven yells from the far end of the bay, smashing into pieces some device she’s been tampering with for hours. “Whatever you’re planning on doing _just do it already_ ,” she begs, massaging her temples.

They both blush red like they’ve been caught stealing. “Um, actually –“ Clarke stammers.

“It _does_ get pretty annoying,” Wick quips innocently, from his spot a little further to Raven’s left. “Don’t get me wrong, foreplay’s nice and all, but –“

“Jesus Christ,” Bellamy keeps saying, looking for all the world like he would literally rather be undergoing a slow, painful death. “Shut up, Wick.”

“I’m just sayin’, man, kiss her already, or take this outside –“

“ _WICK_ ,” Clarke hisses, at the same time as Bellamy’s yelling it. She puts a steadying hand on his arm, holding him back. _Damage control,_ shetells herself. “Can you please stay out of this?”

“Would love to. Can’t really. This place is smaller than you think. Acoustics are crazy.”

“Yeah, we can’t help but hear every single word, you fucking _flirts,_ ” Raven adds, seemingly about to start hurling things at them. “I got a massive headache just trying to block it out, never mind getting this goddamn thing fixed.”

Bellamy runs a hand over his face in dismay. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

 “You damn well better believe it,” she says. “How‘d you like to hear _me_ flirting when you’re trying to shoot at someone, huh?”

Wick takes a precautionary step forward, placing himself before Raven. “Lady here’s a bit fired up.” He leans forward conspiratorially, whispers, “She hasn’t taken her pain meds yet. I’m guessing you two have about twenty seconds to leave before she starts throwing punches.”

“I HEARD THAT!”

Clarke raises both hands in surrender, starts backing up. “Okay. Okay. We’re leaving. Let’s not go crazy, yeah?”

“I want a decent apology!!” Raven howls.

Bellamy actually cringes. If she weren’t mildly concerned for their immediate wellbeing –this is, after all, the woman that built them bombs out of tin cans– Clarke would find it hilarious. “We’re really sorry?”, he attempts.

She elbows him hard, gives him a significant glare meaning _No question mark, you idiot_. “We’re terribly sorry to have, um, been a disturbance,” she says, a diplomatic smile plastered on her face. “You’ll excuse us.”

Wick nods, winks. “Just remember some of us are actually trying to work over here.”

“Damn right!” Raven explodes again.

Bellamy is already tugging at her sleeve, half shielding her with his body. The last thing they hear before they scurry out is the sound of something smashing hard against metal and Raven yelling after them, “Next time just get a fucking room!”

By the time they stop to catch their breaths at a distance they deem momentarily safe –Raven’s wrath will follow them wherever they go, she figures–, they’re on the other end of camp. Bellamy looks like he’s seen a ghost. “I told you that was a terrible idea,” he says. He shakes his head from side to side, inconsolable. “What have we done,” he whispers, almost to himself.

“Oh c’me on, it wasn’t so bad, was it?” she teases, trying to ease the tension off. He glares at her sharply. “Right. Fine. We fucked up.”

“Understatement of the year,” he says, low. His eyes widen in horror when realization dawns over him. “We are never going to live this down, are we?”

She grimaces. “Probably not.”

“I’m gonna owe Wick all kinds of weird sex favors for keeping this secret, aren’t I?” His hands go to his face again. “I’m gonna have to let him hook up with Octavia, aren’t I? Fucking Hell.” He goes pale.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you _blind_? If Wick’s into anyone, that would be Raven. Take it easy.” But Bellamy isn’t listening, or, alternatively, does not know the meaning of _taking something easy._ Clarke is pretty sure it’s the latter. When she talks, Bellamy is always listening.

“Octavia is going to be a pain in the ass about this until the end of times,” he says gravely. “This is it. My life is over.”

“Okay, get a hold of yourself.”

Bellamy narrows is eyes at her. “Why are you enjoying this so much?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention?” She tries and fails to stifle a wild grin, eyes shining with excitement. “We got caught talking dirty!” she says, sounding thrilled, a choice of tone Bellamy does not appreciate,considering the gravity of the situation. “That means we’re _fun_.  We’re _hot_. No one can call us boring anymore! Any time they call us boring – bam, buddy, joke’s on you, cause _I_ got caught talking dirty. No one can top that!!”

For an instant he just stares at her, a million colliding thoughts like _God, I love her so much_ and _God, I hate her so much_ shooting through his brain like arrows. He cannot truly believe his life right now. “Okay, first,” he says, when he manages a minimum of composure, “if that was dirty talking, it was the lamest, cleanest dirty talking in history –”

“Hey!”, she interrupts, and he is utterly and irrevocably _in love_ with how affronted she looks.

“– so it doesn’t count. Honestly. I’ve heard grandmothers say nastier things in their sleep. If anything, that makes this whole thing _worse_.”

Her jaw is already set at its usual stubborn angle. “We’ll see.”

“No, we won’t, because secondly, we are never, _ever_ doing this again.”

“Not in company, no,” she agrees, ever the negotiator, “but maybe if the right occasion should present itself…” she trails off, eyebrows raised in what she hopes is suggestive but ends up making her look a little deranged.

Every cell in his body is saying _YES_. “Absolutely not,” he says firmly, with a shake of the head, holding onto her shoulders to steady himself.

She gives him a knowing look. “I’m pretty sure we’d both do it again.”

“Obviously,” he blurts out before he can help himself, and purses his lips tight when she smirks in triumph. “No, as in –“ He wipes a hand across his forehead, exasperated. “Look, if you went back in time, and came to me with that stupid idea, and asked me again, I would say yes, because at that point in the past I did not fully understand the potential dangers of that decision. That’s what I meant.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m talking about,” she says, and he can’t let her press her case again, really, because there lies madness.

 “First time was experimental,” he says patiently. “Now that we know better –”

“– we can do it better,” she finishes for him. “Right? That’s where you were going?”

He’s about to retort when they’re interrupted by a crackling radio static sound, which means the camp’s loudspeakers have been turned on. Testing noises are heard, and someone who sounds suspiciously like Wick tentatively takes the mike. It’s too far to make out the words, but when they hear a commotion of laughter and cheers shaking the crowd, they both have a terrible sinking feeling in their guts that they know exactly what was just announced.

“Oh no,” she says, face contorting in concern, despite herself.

“Oh _God_ ,” Bellamy says, frowning until his face is nothing but a frown. “We are so deeply _fucked_.”

“Um, _technically_ , neither of us are fucked yet…” she starts to say, trying to look innocent, and between total collapse and laughter, Bellamy chooses the latter. He laughs a low, rumbling laugh until his sides hurt, closes the gap between them in a few steps and crashes his mouth onto hers, smiling with his eyes closed and his forehead pressed against hers. “Fine,” he says ruggedly, breathlessly, in between biting at her neck, “fine, princess, I give up. Do what you want with me.” (Which, in all honesty, is how 90% of their conversations end these days, anyway, so it’s not really that unexpected. Not that they always end with those words exactly; they’re not that monotone. But. Variations on a theme. Co-leadership is all fine and good but times like these Clarke is _pretty sure_ she’s boss. She will fight pretty much anyone on the topic of who’s boss, actually. Especially Bellamy.)

It takes every ounce of resolve in her, but she successfully resists the urge to say _Here, now._ They’re in enough trouble as it is. “Now we’re talking,” she says, instead, swelling with satisfaction and starting off towards the camp, dragging him by the hand. “I know exactly what we’re gonna do next.”

He groans, trudging dutifully after her. Her ideas tend to be equal parts thrilling and horrific. The more excited she is, the less he’s likely to like this. “Princess? May I remind you that we’ve already established that we’re, uh, what’s that word you like? That we’re fun? We don’t have to keep proving that, do we?” he asks, and she could laugh at the terror in his voice.

“Don’t worry, this won’t blow up in our faces and endanger your modesty.” She looks at him over her shoulder, half apologetic, half diplomatic. “I do know when to compromise,” she reminds him.

“Of course,” he concedes. “But mostly you choose to do whatever the Hell you want, don’t you?”

She sniggers. “Look who’s talking.”

 As they make their way across the camp –and even while deliberately picking a bordering, less frequented route–, they’re followed by whispers and finger pointing and giggles, which they ignore as best as they can, while suppressing astrong sudden urge to smack people right in the nose.

“Right,” she says, as they near her unit. “If you changed your mind in light of these people having no manners, you’re allowed to take off now.” She pats his shoulder kindly, expecting him to breathe a sigh of relief and run in the opposite direction.

Instead, he arches one eyebrow derisively, bends down gingerly to kiss her again, softer this time, yet still ardent. “Have you lost your damn mind, princess,” he breathes against her ear, and Clarke thinks she’s about to.  

“Right,” she says again, more than a little lightheaded. “Okay. Okay.”

He smirks and holds the door open for her. “Lead the way.”

“So, just a quick question,” she begins, almost casually, as they walk in, as he closes the door behind them, as he sweeps her off her feet and onto his lap with familiar ease, with gentle fervor.

“Shoot,” he says, while engaged in a momentary struggle with the clasp of her bra.

“Just wondering, if I asked you to kiss me here and there, like, um, _oh_ , _fuck,_ ” she stops mid-sentence, a sound too short and casual to be a moan –and yet a moan nonetheless– escaping her as his mouth –not without commendable diligence– works its way down her chest and abdomen. She is barely aware that her back is now pressing against the wall, a repositioning she presumes he’s chosen in order to make maneuvers easier. She makes a mental note of discussing this strategy later, all this holding her up against the wall and the gymnastics of kissing every part of her while so arranged.  

“Princess?”

Right. She was talking, it seems. “Was wondering what you’d do if I had, uh, certain kissing requests.”

“Huh.” He halts halfway through unzipping her jeans, and, ignoring her protestations, pretends to be lost in deep reflective thought, even as she squirms against him to get his attention, even as his impossibly gentle steel grip tightens around her waist and his heartbeat picks up a yet more maddening speed. (Trust her on this one. That’s one of the benefits of being a doctor. Ish. She can tell.) “I suppose,” he says eventually, bending down to resume kissing below her navel, baring his teeth and making a low satisfied sound in the back of his throat as she shivers, “I suppose that would depend on how you asked.” He looks up at her, his eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. “You can’t just go around expecting people to simply drop everything to perform weird sex favors for you, princess.” He smirks. “Or _on_ you. However that goes.”

She laughs and gasps all at once before she can answer. Her pants disappeared somewhere along the way –she’s not sure when this happened, exactly–, and the feeling of his hands on her hips and the pressure of his mouth against her, even with her underwear still on is, frankly, already doing wonders for her, to put it mildly. “Okay,” she manages to say. “What should I do?”

 “I guess you’d just have to be polite,” he explains, as he lays her down on the bed, a careful hand on the back of her neck. “And specific. If you want things done right, that is,” he says, teasing her lightly with his fingers.

 _Holy fuck._ Clarke thinks the way he’s making her feel should probably be illegal, and then figures it’s only fair, considering how completely he is under her command, as proven by recent events. Birds of a feather, truly.

“I’m in luck, then, I think,” she says, breathlessly, as she wraps her legs around him.

“Really?”

“Yup.” She presses her legs to his sides eloquently. “I happen to be very nice. And very bossy.”

He grins with his entire face, one of those rare Bellamy grins she’s always so proud of herself for prompting. “Go on then,” he mumbles, fingers fluttering down below as he bends down again to kiss her. She gasps into his mouth and bites, so that then it’s his turn to gasp into hers. “Ask away, princess. I’ll see if I can oblige.”

She grins wickedly. If there is one thing Clarke is good at, that’s asking nicely.

(He obliges.)


End file.
